


Control

by Tammany



Series: Sweet Mystrade Fluff [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Control Issues, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, crossed wires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is superbly in control--except when he's not. Sometimes, socially, he's far too clearly Sherlock's Big Brother, and just as clueless as a Holmes can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

“Bugger,” Mycroft said, and lowered his face into his hands. “Bugger-all to hell and back.” He’d made a complete mull of it this time. Why did the human element—the emotional element—have to be so complicated.

He clicked the com connection with his aide. “Very well. Let him in,” he said. Then he realized he’d made yet another error—he’d cleared Lestrade to enter before repairing his own appearance. He sat at his desk in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves. His jacket, removed an hour previously when Mycroft had first realized what he’d done, was tossed carelessly over the iron armchair in front of the desk. His hair was uncombed, and the forelock fell in a loose question mark over his brow.

Too late now, though. The door of the office opened and Lestrade stalked in, dark and angry as a storm coming off the North Sea. Mycroft straightened, determined to at least retain his dignity and his command of his own office.

“Lestrade.”

“You’re a right twat, you are,” the other man growled, cutting across the office so fast he seemed almost to materialize at the front of Mycroft’s desk. “A complete bloody dick. You try that on me again, and I swear, it won’t matter how many people you have on bodyguard duty—I’ll toss you arse over teakettle and make you thank me for it.”

Mycroft forced his face into stillness. “My approach was, perhaps, ill-considered—“

“Shite.” The word exploded out of Lestrade, cutting Mycroft off. He leaned over Mycroft’s desk, palms flat on the smooth surface. “Do you always try to coerce your fuck-partners, Holmes? Bit of a thrill forcing the issue?”

Mycroft twitched. “Not…not coercion,” he said, suddenly defensive. Then he gathered his reserve around him again. “Mildly imposing, perhaps. I—“

“Yeah. Right. Watch me on the feckin’ CCTV, then send me a creepy text message suggesting we have a ‘private talk.’ Dropping hints every which way that you could make my life more difficult.”

Mycroft shivered. “I didn’t mean…”

“Yeah, you did. So, tell me—is it a kink of yours? You need it? Look for lovers who give in when you push?”

Mycroft’s head shot up. “That’s obscene, Lestrade. Of course not.”

“Yeah? What’s your usual, then? The Iceman…I’m not impressed.”

Mycroft was silent, struggling with an unfamiliar longing to sort this out—to justify, or at least explain his actions. He seldom felt this bitter longing except with Sherlock—and with Sherlock it was so different. He closed his eyes, and drew on his deepest, strongest habits—retreat, and reserve. “My apologies, Lestrade. I clearly overstepped, and was clumsy in my attempts to arrange a rendezvous of sorts. All I can say in my defense is that I seldom have reason to socialize, and when I do it’s always in the knowledge that others would use me. I’m…habituated to presenting a strong façade going in. That was clearly a poor move, and one that carried a more profound insult than I intended.”

“You bloody good as suggested you’d blackmail me.”

“I did nothing of the sort!” He didn’t know how he’d failed so completely. He’d meant only to set up the usual barriers—the clear indications that he was dangerous enough to treat with some caution. It was unfair to the very few he socialized with to mislead them into consider him a tame lion. “I was just trying to give fair warning. I’m a dangerous man to socialize with…I have to answer to a higher authority.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh.” He considered Mycroft. “Somehow I consider that a bit unlikely, Holmes. If you hoped I’d give in, you’re out of luck.”

Mycroft wanted to bury his face in his hands again, moan quietly, down a snifter or two of brandy. How did things go so wrong? Instead he straightened and stood behind the desk, moving out into the open space of the office, prepared to herd Lestrade toward the door. “Lestrade, whatever else, we can both agree that this unfortunate incident has spiraled completely out of appropriate range. You can believe me or not, but I intended no insult and no coercion…but it’s clear I gave offense where none was intended, and that there’s little chance of recovering from that misstep. That being the case, perhaps it would be for the best if you left, now. If you want to discuss this further, it ought to wait until you’re less…emotionally engaged.”

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade, far from allowing himself to be gently herded toward the exit, turned to him. “Bloody, bloody hell. Maybe you’d like it if I turned it around. Maybe—yeah. Maybe I should be suggesting I’ll report to your superiors if I don’t see a bit better attitude from you—see how you like it when the worm turns.”

“That’s hardly going to help,” Mycroft snapped. “I assure you, no matter how badly you took my text, my superiors will realize it wasn’t intended as abusive. At worst they’ll…” He paused, then sighed, softly, continuing in a less authoritative voice, “They’ll realize that, like my dear brother, my social skills occasionally fall short of ideal. Truly, DI Lestrade. I meant no insult.”

“You sent me a few shots of me between crime scenes, suggested you were aware I wasn’t working, and then hinted not to mildly that it might be in my best interests to come ‘discuss it with you’ at a bistro over lunch.”

Which Mycroft had desperately hoped would be taken as banter….but…perhaps in hindsight….”I wasn’t spying on you,” he said, “Or at least, not you in particular. We have some concerns about your two cases—possible connections to business of our own. I was just reviewing footage that we’d taken in the course of our own investigation. You—seemed to have time available. I…”

“You bullied me.”

“I didn’t…”

“You did. I don’t like being bullied, Mycroft.” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed, their usual wide-open expression replaced with an angry squint. “Do you?” He took an intentionally aggressive step closer, moving into Mycroft’s personal space.

Mycroft reflexively stepped back. “I wasn’t bullying.”

Lestrade stepped closer. “And I’m Queen Liz.” He stepped closer again, body gathering in ways Mycroft recognized as fighter’s centering—fighter’s balance. “Didn’t appreciate it, sunshine.”

“Stop.” Mycroft forced himself to hold his ground—not afraid, because he knew how to fight, and even if he didn’t there were people who’d respond the minute he shouted an alarm. But this was falling apart in ways he didn’t like, and was sure Lestrade didn’t really mean. Anger was carrying the man places he would regret later. “Lestrade, No matter how much you resent my social idiocy, you don’t want to do this.”

“Didn’t want to do what you set up, either,” he growled. “I don’t kiss arse, sunshine. I don’t know about your usual chums, but I don’t jump when Mycroft Holmes says frog, and I don’t much like the idea of crawling to a lunch date to be forced into more.”

Mycroft’s temper flared in return. “I don’t force partners.”

“Yeah? Can’t prove it by me. What do you do? Kidnap them, like you did John that time?”

“Usually I hire them at a premium, and tip them superbly for services rendered,” Mycroft snapped, temper taking over for a flashing second. “Generally I prefer professionals—the standards are so much higher than you find in the amateur leagues.”

Lestrade blinked, then scoffed. “You know, most men would be embarrassed to admit they have to pay for it,” he said.

“Most men are idiots, as only a little logic would prove. At least I don’t demonstrate the hubris of thinking myself so alluring as to attract only the best and most skilled and loyal individuals by dint of my legendary charms.” He sniffed. “The average man, straight or gay, thinks himself so magnificent he can win a saint or an angel—or for that matter a succubus—with no more than a wink and the purchase of a glass of bitter. As a result, they get exactly the paramours you’d expect from that pay rate.”

“So why’d you try to game me? I’m not that kind of professional, sunshine—and if I were, I’d cost more than a lunch and a threat.”

Mycroft swallowed and turned away, no longer able to maintain the bland role of civil servant chivvying an unwelcome visitor from the room.

“Why?” Lestrade asked again.

Mycroft shrugged. “Temporary insanity, perhaps.”

He heard Lestrade sit in the iron chair. “Huh? Gonna have to unpack that for me…”

“Nothing to unpack. I thought to invite you to lunch. No more, no less.”

“You don’t lie as well as you think you do, Mycroft. I’m not John—hell, I’m not Sherlock, forever ready to think the worst of you because it suits my ego. What the fuck were you doing, My?”

Lestrade seldom called him “Mycroft.” He had never in Mycroft’s memory called him “My.”

“As I said—I was inviting you to lunch.”

“And?”

“And…nothing. I reviewed the CCTV footage. You’re working a pair of cases we’re interested in. You appeared to have some time available. I thought to invite you to a meal. Mix business with pleasure.” Even Mycroft could hear the faint trace of melancholy in that statement. He turned back to look at Lestrade. “It’s just that I’m not that different from Sherlock, sometimes. Not as bad, and not as often—but neither of us is entirely well adjusted to social norms. I overstepped, Lestrade, but not the way you think.”

Lestrade sat in the big armchair, sprawled with an almost jaunty confidence. He watched Mycroft…

Mycroft’s jacket lay over his lap, and his hand stroked the tight, light wool suiting, smoothing the roll of the lapel. “What do you want, My? Really. What do you want?”

“Nothing that matters.” Mycroft sighed, and drew himself up, moving toward the desk again. He was safe behind the desk. “You may chalk this up as another Holmes fiasco. We do seem to wrong-foot around you. Again, my sincere apologies. I meant no insult, but I clearly gave insult. Mea culpa, my dear Inspector.”

“Stop.”

Mycroft turned his head, looking over his shoulder, net yet all the way around the desk. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, that’s right—stop.” Lestrade seemed to sit deeper into the chair. His eyes were clear and calm as he observed the other man. His head tipped back, tilted—a curious sparrow studying an intriguing crumb on the pavement. He didn’t speak.

“Lestrade…”

“Shhhhhh.”

“I don’t have all day, Inspector.”

“Quiet, Holmes. I’m thinking.”

“An activity you might leave to those better suited to the challenge.”

“Tsk-tsk. You’re channeling Sherlock again.”

“Now I’m the one who’s insulted.”

“Shhhhhh.”

Mycroft felt pinned in that dark gaze. It was unsettling. He was the watcher, seldom the watched—and when he was watched he took great care to be securely prepared—fit, trim, well-attired, on guard. If he was to be seen, he fought to control the event, even planning his poses in advance when possible. He remembered the night in the car park, when John Watson had been brought to him—prepared, posed, silhouetted in the cold lights, a tall figure in a beautifully tailored suit, jauntily leaning on his umbrella.

He wasn’t so secure, now. Lestrade was a trained agent and detective, not half so inept as Sherlock liked to pretend. Lestrade, too, had years of prior knowledge of both Holmeses to draw on. He knew Mycroft’s context—the setting of much of his life.

And there Mycroft was in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. He watched Lestrade’s hand, now still on the jacket, wishing he could reclaim the garment and put it on.

“You’re not used to being out of control.”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “I have responsibilities. I can’t afford to get careless.”

“Mmmm.” Lestrade stood, then. The jacket hung from his hand, loose and heavy. “But in some situations you’re not good at it.”

“Stating the obvious.” Mycroft watched as the other man stepped closer. “We wouldn’t be here now if I had any innate skill at certain social modes.”

“Mmmm. You know, hiring a pro isn’t the only option. You could cede control to someone you trusted to show a bit more finesse.”

“My way’s more secure.”

“Your way involves less risk to your ego.”

“Less risk, period.”

“Mmmm.”

“Stop humming.”

Lestrade shook the jacket out, then flipped it around Mycroft’s shoulders—and pulled him close, slowly…very slowly. “Why?”

Mycroft tried to pull away. “Why what?”

“Hmmm?”

“What are you doing?” Mycroft’s voice squeaked—just a bit.

Lestrade’s hands gripped tight into the jacket, pulling the fabric taught, holding Mycroft close. He nuzzled below Mycroft’s ear. “I’m demonstrating control,” he whispered.

Mycroft gave a small gasp. “Oh…”

“Please note,” Lestrade said, then, dropping a small kiss on Mycroft’s jaw, “I am not sending suspicious photos from CCTV cams, giving the impression of stalking.”

“Nggg.”

“I’m not texting you weird messages suggesting the Godfather wants to see you…”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Shhhhhh,” Lestrade hushed him. “Shhhh. That’s the point. You didn’t mean it that way—but some things—some things, Mycroft Holmes, you are not all that good at. Leave it to someone who knows what he’s doing.” Then Lestrade drew back just enough to hover his face against Mycroft’s—tipped up to make up the difference in heights. Mycroft could feel his breath tickle against his lips. “Yes or no?”

“What?”

“Yes? Or no? Kiss or not? Either way, I’ll see us safe to the end, My.”

“What?”

“Trust me. Trust my control.”

Mycroft shivered hard—a palsy that rattled through him. He gasped. “Bugger.”

“Later, maybe. Right now—kiss?”

“Why?”

“Because this is what you really wanted.”

It was…not that he could have said it. Not that he’d have known how to get it. He closed his eyes.

“What about you?”

“You care?”

“I always cared. No matter how clumsily—I did care.”

“Then…yes. If you care, then I want this, too.”

Mycroft nodded, and leaned into Lestrade’s mouth, his lips grazing the other man’s.

“Yes,” he said, then, and let control drop away, trusting the other man to guide them safe to rest.


End file.
